CHAPTER 51
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Harry arrived at Malfoy Manor four minutes early with his inadequate gift in hand and his heart thundering with excitement.
Draco is inside.
Any moment now, Harry would enter that house and see Draco Malfoy in all his gorgeousness— and they would actually go on a date.
He would have the man all to himself.
And that thought seized him and slammed tantalising possibilities into his mind— of Draco on his back with his legs spread, his neck exposed and waiting, his cock shining with moisture as he moaned Harry's name... that firm arse which he remembered so well, squeezing his cock as he pounded into him, biting his neck and speaking sweet words of love... He thought of hands and thighs and tender bollocks and all the things he was desperate to do, all of his most treasured fantasies, he could have them all today if Draco let him. Maybe he'd get to—
"Are you planning on coming inside, Mr Potter?" Lucius asked suddenly, and Harry gasped, snapping out of his thoughts like he'd been electrocuted.
The Malfoy patriarch was standing in the doorway, scrutinising Harry with amusement.
Unashamed, Harry nodded and stepped forward.
Fuck yes, I'm coming inside— coming inside your son tonight, with any luck.
"I've prepared a fortifying drink for you," Lucius said, passing him a tumbler of amber liquid.
Harry ignored it, looking around.
"Where's Draco?" he asked, unable to be distracted.
"He's just upstairs getting ready. Why not relax and enjoy this while you wait."
Again, Lucius offered him the glass, but Harry began walking to the stairs impatiently.
"He wanted you to drink this first, Potter," Lucius stated firmly, and Harry stopped dead.
"He did?"
Draco wants you to drink it. Don't disappoint him.
Lucius nodded, so Harry came back and took the tumbler.
"He said he wanted you comfortable while you waited for him," Lucius informed him. "And he wants you to wait with me in the salon."
Necking back a good portion of the liquid, he followed the older man into a huge sitting room with dozens of long, fancy chairs. Lucius sat, then patted the cushions beside him. Harry walked over and settled in awkwardly next to him on the settee.
"That's it, Harry. Just relax. Draco will be so proud of you."
Harry's chest burst with an agonising need to fulfil that demand. He quaffed the drink, sucking back every drop in his eagerness to please his intended. When it was empty, he set down the glass and turned to Lucius.
"When can I see him?"
Lucius's grin spread.
"Patience. He's just finishing up. You don't want to rush him, do you? He won't like that."
Oh, shit. Don't fuck this up.
Vigorously, he shook his head.
"That's right," Lucius soothed. "Let's talk while we wait."
Harry glanced towards the stairs, disliking the delay, but there wasn't much he could do about it.
"Fine."
Lucius nodded with approval and grabbed his snake cane that had been leaning against the armrest. In one smooth motion, he separated the wand from the long base and held it out. Harry's muscle memory took over and he jumped to his feet.
"It's alright, Harry," Lucius gently assured him. "I just wanted to show it to you. We're not fighting, see? Sit down, now. You have nothing to fear from me."
Fear? I'm not afraid of you.
Stubbornly, he sat back down.
"Why don't you show me yours, too?" Lucius suggested.
Harry frowned.
My wand? Why?
"It's a sign of trust to show someone your wand," Lucius informed him. "Draco would want you to trust me. Go on."
Harry chewed on his lip. Why did that sound like a bad idea?
"Draco wants me to?" he asked, because really, that's all that mattered.
Lucius nodded.
"Oh, yes. He'd want you to put it on the table here between us, so I could see it."
Weird.
But, whatever. If Draco wanted him to, he'd do it.
Reaching into his pocket, he encountered two wands. Confused, he pulled them both out.
"Is that—?" Lucius asked with a sharp note of surprise.
"Why'd I bring— oh yeah," Harry muttered to himself. "I was gonna give it to..."
He trailed off, unsure if Draco would want him to reveal what he'd been about to do.
"You were going to give it to the Dark Lord," Lucius finished for him.
Harry inclined his head.
Madness. At least he hadn't done it.
"Can I see it?" Lucius asked.
Harry hesitated, but the other man made an unhappy sound.
"Come, now. You can trust me. Draco would want you to."
That was true. Draco undoubtedly trusted his father, so Harry would just have to learn to do so as well, if he wanted to one day marry Draco.
Oh fucking christ— marry him? Was that even a possibility? Holy hell. Draco and him, forever.
Til death do us part.
Something in him tightened at that phrase, but he had no idea why.
Slowly, he passed the Elder Wand to Lucius. The older man's fingers wrapped possessively around the wood when he received it.
"And your other wand?" Lucius reminded him, not taking his eyes off the Death Stick.
Harry looked down to see his holly wand in his fist. He didn't want to relinquish it. A quiet, buried part of his brain was yelling something at him that sounded hysterical, but he pushed it aside. Draco wanted him to trust Lucius, so he would.
He handed over his last wand and Lucius abruptly stood.
"I'm just going to put these over here."
Lucius placed Harry's wands on the table, then cast a protective sphere around them.
Why would he do that?
Harry found that he was suddenly standing.
"It's fine, Harry," Lucius soothed. "Draco would want you to let me do this."
Harry glanced again to the stairs.
"Is he almost ready? Can I go check?"
Lucius paused.
"I suppose it's time for that, yes."
Excitement erupted inside of him.
"Brilliant! Let's go."
Harry took the stairs without waiting for Lucius to accompany him. Fuck convention and manners— he needed to find Draco.
The first bedroom that he checked was empty. He searched every room nearby and found all of them devoid of life.
Devoid of Draco.
When he turned to question Lucius, the man was pointing his wand directly at Harry's chest.
Harry reached for his own wand, but he found nothing.
"Petrificus Totalus!" Lucius incanted, and Harry went rigid, then fell to the floor.
No.
Something is wrong.
Draco.
He needed to ask about Draco, but he couldn't speak. Lucius was smiling as he approached.
"I'm afraid Draco isn't here right now, Potter."
Isn't here— you fucking liar!
"Luckily for you, I need you alive to get your paramour here. Don't worry, though. I'm sure it won't take long. And when he does come, I'll be able to take him back to Azkaban."
Azkaban? Draco had been in Azkaban?
"But you, dear Harry," Lucius said, bending down to glide a finger across Harry's forehead. "Sadly, you will die in the heroic scuffle to reclaim the Dark Lord. Tragic. Yet fear not. I will take over the Ministership and deal with He Who Must Not Be Named properly."
Harry wanted to scream with frustration.
And Draco?
What would happen to him? Who cared what the fuck befell Lord Voldemort— what was going to happen to Lucius's son?
Something of his internal struggle must have shown in his eyes because Lucius smiled cruelly.
"Be patient. Draco is supposed to come by this evening. I'm sure he'll be happy to see you."
Harry closed his eyes with violent annoyance.
That motherfucker.
He'd lured Harry here with a lie and Draco wasn't even home.
But tonight. He said Draco is coming by tonight.
Harry forced his murderous thoughts to calm.
This could still be salvaged. Tonight, he would make Draco see how much he loved him and warn him about his father.
While Harry was distracted by thoughts of their impending reunion, Lucius rudely hit him with a Levicorpus. He was manoeuvered along the hall and then deposited into one of the bedrooms, still trapped motionless under the body bind curse. Helplessly, he fell to the floor with a thud and watched the door click shut and lock with painful finality.
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Voldemort glanced away from the lifeless bodies below him, their red blood mingling with the heavy rain.
It had not helped. Venting his anger had only left him feeling unendurably weak.
Harry should not affect him thus. Furthermore, it was absurd to entertain the thought that the boy would prefer anyone to Lord Voldemort. He was the apex. Immortal. Supreme.
And yet, at this very moment, Harry was apparently on a date with Draco Malfoy.
The child that Harry suddenly preferred to his Master.
It was impossible, and therefore must be ignored, but then— Harry had left. That was undeniable.
Voldemort strode away, leaving the carnage behind. He pulled the boy's infernal cloak around himself as he exited the deserted street just off of Knockturn Alley.
There were only two plausible explanations for Harry's departure that he could perceive, and both required the same handling from Lord Voldemort. Firstly, Harry could have truly fallen in love with Draco, which would necessitate finding the blond heir and Vanishing all of his internal organs. Or, Harry could have been compelled by magic to go on this date and then taken prisoner, thus requiring the same intervention.
Either way, Lord Voldemort needed his magic so that he could make Draco Malfoy scream.
Voldemort would complete the ritual today.
Harry was behaving erratically. Unfathomably. And it was Lord Voldemort's right— given to him by Harry Potter— to take the boy in hand and make him listen. He needed to remind Harry what he had chosen. What they had carved into each other's skin. Because there was no going back from that.
Voldemort vaguely glanced at the condensated shop windows through the pouring rain, but he saw none of their wares. His mind was caught mercilessly on what the boy was likely doing at that moment.
Another betrayal.
Images rose up— of Harry tilting his head back to allow those undeserving lips to touch his precious skin, Harry pleading with Draco to take him, Harry kneeling and pledging himself to the child—
It was too much.
Rage and misery exploded out of him and he lashed out, launching his fist through the window of a shop that he was walking past.
It hurt, but the pain was reassuring. He was alive, able to feel the glass embedded in his wrist. To feel the cold rain irritate the wound.
Carelessly, he pulled his hand free, intending to continue his murderous stroll, but a man came rushing out, looking scandalised. Voldemort realised then that Harry's cloak had slipped and his head was exposed. Although the hood of his robes were pulled up completely to protect himself from the weather, Anthony Borgin's terrified eyes showed immediate recognition.
The ancient man fell back against the wall, clutching his chest.
"It cannot be!" Anthony gasped weakly, and Voldemort found that this fear was a balm on his corrosive, violent anger.
Taking the opportunity for what it was, he strode past his former employer and towards his shop.
"Let us shift this serendipitous reunion inside," Voldemort commented as he passed.
Although it was dry when he entered, and Voldemort's clothes were imbued with water-repelling charms, his skin was still mildly damp from the precipitation.
And it irritated him.
He longed to feel the comfort of his magic. The convenience of being free to banish the water carelessly, as was his right.
The bell above the door chimed again, heralding Anthony's presence at last.
"Lock the door," Voldemort commanded.
"Please," the man uselessly begged. "I have nothing of value, but take what you want. You can have it— anything."
Voldemort turned to regard the worm with amusement.
"Do you believe that I am here to loot your vendables?" he asked, glancing around at the mouldering rubbish with disdain. "You had nothing to offer me when I worked here, Anthony. I doubt very much that that has changed."
A frown appeared on Borgin's forehead.
"You worked...?"
Voldemort nodded.
"I will not take your lack of recognition personally, I assure you. I am told that my appearance is quite changed from his. And it has been some time since I wore the skin of Tom Riddle."
Borgin inhaled sharply.
"You! You stole from... I mean..."
The man's better sense took over his insolent mouth, which was lucky. He needed the flea and it would be a shame to have to kill him already.
"That which is not yours," Voldemort condemned quietly, restraining his rage, "cannot be stolen, maggot. That locket was mine. As were the other relics, since they were heirlooms of the Founders. My ancestors. Be careful not to argue this fact," he warned, as Anthony dared to open his mouth in protest.
Wisely, the man backed down. Voldemort straightened his posture, taking comfort in his victory.
"I require a service from you, Anthony. Let us pretend that you offer it in recompense for robbing my mother of a fair price on her heirloom."
He met the coward's gaze, feeding all of his ire and determination into his stare. Borgin took a step away, his back hitting the wall.
"Or," Voldemort continued in a dangerous whisper, "you can do as I demand because you do not wish to die. For if you refuse, I will strip the meat from your bones. Slowly. With my teeth. I will crack open your ribcage and stuff you full with the junk from your shelves. Then, I will sell your vital organs for a pittance to the dogs and make you watch as they—"
"I'll do it!" Anthony cried, closing his eyes and making a pitiful sobbing sound. "Please, have mercy on me."
Mercy.
As if this rat was entitled to it. Voldemort's memory was sharp, and he recalled how little Tom Riddle had been compensated for all that he had skilfully procured for this vulture.
"You do not deserve my mercy," Voldemort replied. "Instead, be grateful that you have not earned my displeasure."
Borgin nodded.
"What do I need to do?"
"I require a small donation from you," Voldemort explained.
He strode towards the man and watched him cower at his proximity. When Voldemort got to the door, he locked it and then raised his eyebrows with disgust at Borgin's craven reaction.
"I will prepare a ritual," Voldemort went on. "You will not need to assist with anything, save for the final ingredient."
Voldemort pulled from his robes a note that he had written, bearing instructions that Harry would have had to follow. In his mind, it had always been Harry who had brought him back to his full eminence.
But Harry was currently on a date.
And he needed his Master to come collect him.
"While I brew," Voldemort rasped, dragging his thoughts away from a bloody and dying Draco Malfoy, "you will read this parchment to familiarise yourself with the process."
"That's the ritual?" Borgin asked in a small voice, his tone betraying his trepidation.
Voldemort strode to one of the tables in the shop and swiped all the clutter of objects to the floor. Some trinkets shattered when they fell, others bounced or rolled away. Anthony whimpered with complaint, but wisely did not formulate his objection into words.
Voldemort began to locate items he would need for the potion. It would not be difficult as none of the ingredients were challenging to obtain. Only the last one.
"You will return to me my magic," Voldemort informed him, taking a moment to enjoy the abject horror that this pronouncement drew from his old employer.
"No— I..." Borgin stammered, moving further away. "Surely not me..."
"It will be you, or I will rip the heart from your chest, Borgin. It will be you, or I will track down every member of your family and turn them into my Inferi. It will be you, Anthony. Or you will know my displeasure."
The old man began to shamelessly beg and plead, but Voldemort ignored him. He turned back to his task and continued to get everything ready.
You cannot fault me for this, Harry. You left me no choice.
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When Harry opened his eyes, Draco Malfoy was staring down at him with shock and horror.
Horror?
You probably look like shit, laying on the floor in a heap. Stand up! Pretend that you're someone worthy of him.
Harry jumped up from the floor, his heart absolutely thundering in his chest— he's here! He's come to rescue me!
"Draco!" Harry moaned, stumbling forward and reaching out for the gorgeous man— who flinched away. "I'm sorry. Your father. He—"
"Ready for your date, Harry?" Lucius cut in, and Harry suddenly remembered why he was here.
A date!
Who cares about what Lucius had been up to— Draco was here to spend time with him. Would they go to dinner? Would they hold fucking hands?
Harry felt his cock harden at the thought. Oh Merlin, Draco might hold his hand. He'd die. He'd fucking incinerate if Draco touched him. He'd—
"What's going on?" Draco asked slowly, his voice sounding all wrong. Scared and unhappy.
"I love you!" Harry shouted, because that was all that mattered.
But Draco wasn't looking at him. Not even when he'd said the L word. He was glaring at his father.
"He's had a change of heart," Lucius replied with a smile.
Change of heart? But my heart has always belonged to Draco.
"Bullshit!" Draco spat, laughing in a not-nice way.
"He came by this evening," Lucius continued, "asking if you'd accompany him on a da—"
Harry shoved the older man away, frustrated.
"Fuck off, I can speak for myself," Harry groused, and then turned to Draco resolutely. "I love you."
Why couldn't he stop saying that? It was like his love was bubbling up inside of him and every time he opened his mouth, he was at risk of vomiting his sentiments all over the poor guy.
But Draco didn't seem repulsed. In fact, his angry face softened for an instant— it became imbued with hope and affection and love and Harry moaned again, stepping forward and grabbing Draco's limp hands.
"I love you," he repeated, squeezing the warm digits. "I want us to be together forever. Can you ever love me back? I promise I'll protect you. I'll do anything."
Draco's face hardened slowly, and it was like watching the sun set, taking away the light that Harry needed to grow.
Those beautiful eyes closed.
"This is cruel, Father," Draco whispered.
Harry's heart ached to see him so sad. He didn't understand. What was cruel? Did he hate Harry? Was he disgusted?
"I can do better," Harry rasped, and then cleared his throat.
Strong for them.
"I won't fail again, okay?" Harry promised, but Draco's devastating grey eyes did not reopen, though a tear tracked down one perfect cheek. "I'll never let anyone hurt you. I... I need you. Please. Please love me back. I know I'm rubbish. I'm poison and rotten and a freak. I know. But I can do better. Just... please love me."
Draco's fingers tightened around his own and he made a strangled sound in his throat.
Harry knelt down before him and Draco opened his eyes in shock.
"Please, Draco. Love me. I love you."
Harry pressed his forehead against Draco's stomach, and he felt the barest hint of firmness poking him in the chin.
And that was too fucking much.
It didn't matter that Draco's dad was right there. It didn't matter that Draco was crying or that Harry was thirsty and scared— he needed to take Draco deep into his throat and show him like this, what his words were failing to convey.
When Harry's hands finally reached Draco's straining pants, it was like the man woke up. He shoved Harry away, sprawling him onto his back on the floor.
"You don't want that, Harry," Draco choked, but Harry crawled back to him.
"Of course I do! I want it so bad. I want to suck you off, Draco, please. Let me—"
"Enough!" Draco cried, and Harry was abruptly hit with a wandless, non-verbal immobilising charm.
My lover is so powerful.
He fell back awkwardly, though thankfully he was still able to see Draco. That flawless face turned to his father.
"Amortentia," Draco said perplexingly.
Lucius held his stare.
"No. He just loves you."
Draco made an awful sound and pulled out his wand, hitting his father with something that threw the older man back against the wall.
"He's never loved me!"
Indignation exploded like fireworks inside of him.
I love you more than I can bear! My heart is in agony with all of it, my mind full of nothing but you! My love for you is—
"I'm taking him, Father," Draco interrupted, completely ignoring Harry's internal heartfelt declarations.
Lucius pulled out his own wand, but instead of aiming it at his son, he pointed it at Harry.
That's good! That means that Lucius thinks that Draco values you above himself! He loves you!
"I can't let you do that," Lucius said. "I encourage you to take some time to come to terms with Harry's love. Come back when you accept it."
"I can't accept it," Draco said, sounding miserable. "It's not real."
"Come back once you've cooled down," Lucius advised stupidly, because that wasn't what was needed!
All that had to happen was Lucius had to fuck right off, Draco had to release him, and Harry would work out the rest. He just needed to convince Draco that—
"I can't leave him here," Draco said quietly, finally turning his radiant attention onto Harry.
That sweeping, concerned gaze ignited his arousal and Harry felt his own cock press painfully against his trousers. Fuck, let me free, Draco. Let me suck you off. Fuck me, let me fuck you—
"I won't hurt him," Lucius vowed, and Harry would have snorted if he could have.
What do you call knocking me out and not giving me food or water? Or stealing my wand?
"You tried to kill him," Draco argued.
Oh yeah! That too!
Lucius nodded.
"The fact that he loves you now, changes everything." Lucius put a gentle hand on his son's shoulder. "Go. Come back tomorrow morning. I'll keep him safe."
Don't do it! Don't leave me!
But Draco was clearly agitated about something. Attractively so. His puffy eyes and flushed cheeks just made him look that much lovelier. Harry ached to hold him in his arms and comfort him. Kiss his forehead. Lick his eyebrows.
With one last sad, lingering look at him, Draco turned and walked out the door.
.
.
Everything was prepared.
Anthony was hovering nearby, muttering inanely. Voldemort tried to focus on his excitement. Because it was exciting.
He was about to get his magic back.
Finally, he would return to being Lord Voldemort, the most powerful Dark wizard of any age.
It was a compelling image, yet it would not stay.
His anticipation continually became poisened by the nagging reminder that Harry was not a part of this.
He had been looking forward to building back his full might with the flesh of his equal. This culmination was important. The last, vital step to regaining his omnipotence required unsurpassed ingredients.
Was he willing to settle for just any flesh? Just any servant? How would he feel to know that his perfection had been tainted by subpar components?
"And you swear that you'll leave me alone when this is done?" Borgin repeated maddeningly.
Of course he would not. Borgin would have to be eliminated to protect his secrets.
Voldemort turned to level a dark look at him.
"Ask me again, and you shall receive a different answer."
Anthony bowed his head, nodding. His contemplation fell to the potion and the remains of the ingredients on the table.
"Then... why the delay?" the mule asked hesitantly. "Is this not ready? Are we—"
"Silence."
Voldemort walked off, his irritation at a pinnacle.
Everything was ready.
Everything but him.
He went into an adjoining storeroom and stood with his back to the wall, in the darkness.
He was so close. He could have his magic if he but extended his hand.
Yet the familiar, persistent axiom that had driven the latter part of his life demanded that he accept nothing but the boy. As before, as always, he did not want a servant. He had only ever wanted Harry Potter.
And he would have him.
Turning with compliant resolution, he went back to Borgin to clean up his mess.